Summer is a lie, winter is a reality
by quirky blue yaw
Summary: Mel finds the screaming, hair length proximity of the 'war' too close for comfort. In a bid to reveal the Daily Prophet's fear inducing, bias and unjust ways Mel finds himself in deep water. He finds his world is a place where nothing is as it seems.
1. Go home boy!

**Disclaimer: I am not J.K Rowling, therefore I do not rightfully own the whole Harry Potter theme-thing…got that sorted out?**

**Good.**

Chapter 1 – Go home boy!

The setting is outside a café. The group is small, consisting of one or two of Mel's closest friends. The tiny road they are facing releases an occasional terrified ant pulling cloaks tighter around their shoulders, gripping each other's cold hands.

Mel and his friends are the first customers of the week and so are rewarded with a double serving of whatever tosh they'd ordered. The waitress's face is a melting pot of lines, relief lines, suspicious lines, apprehensive lines, and curious lines.

Curiosity kills the cat, she tells herself and dashes out of Mel's eyesight.

Only Mel isn't wearing a tight-lipped expression. His friends looked like they had missed their beds and hit the hard floor each night.

A newspaper lays folded between them.

"Mel why'd you bring us out?"

Mel was flustered by the paranoia that was sexually assaulting his friends. They looked possessed and their skins reeked of the filth fear brings on.

"This is what friends do." He replied pushing himself back onto his chair.

A girl on his right leaned in.

"You are a sure jerk to think this up. Its not _safe,_" she hissed.

Mel issued a heavy sigh.

The girl didn't stop: "your immature to think, that oh it's ok! It's a lovely day-" (and it was)"-why don't I pull my friends from their cosy little secure beds and place them in the most paroled, tight arsed security region around?"

Mel tried not to smirk.

"Come on guys, I just want to relax a bit. Diagon's still operating, it's not a fortress or anything." He waved a hand around politely ignoring two security trolls lurking outside Gringotts.

"That's it, you're mad. I'm leaving."

Mel bit his lip as his friends made to leave, now or never.

"What if it's not all, as it seems." (That was too obscure).

"Huh?"

"You know, what if the Daily Prophets playing up on our fears?"

"And what would the motive behind that be?"

Mel leaned in, resting casually on an elbow. "I don't know what exactly, but it can't be so black and white."

"And what if it is?"

Mel snorted, "Come on, this is a matter that deserves a discussion at least."

"Mel, somewhere else."

"Inside then?"

The girl who's name was also Mel – Melanie – looked ruffled, "No Mel, at someone's house, where it's … safe."

"Ok, let's think about it. There's the dark side, they just so happened to be ruled under history's most evil figure. We hear all these stories about how they murder and rampage, rape muggles."

She-Mel flinched.

Mel continued. "And then we hear about how the noble Harry Potter along with his group of do-gooders are out to save the world! A boy pure and noble and all that shit."

The rough looking male on She-Mel's right, narrowed his eyes.

"What are you saying? Your not … _supporting…_ you know who? Are you?"

Mel threw up his hands, in mock horror, the clouds who had hung low to listen chuckled nervously has their feather-breasted bodies rolled on.

"Now _really_," he retorted.

"Jus' saying. Sounds like you're against our side."

"That's it! You see, it's always, their side (the dark side) and our side (the good side)… I just can't see how something so … simple could exist. Surely there are shades of grey!"

She-Mel shook her head, "look Mel, of course there are some freak cases where the sides melt over a bit. I mean that rumour about Narcissa Malfoy crossing over? And there's Sirius Black's brother who crossed over and of course there's vice versa, Pettigrew that is…"

Jud – on She-Mel's right, spat at the mention of Pettigrew.

"Now while there are the odd case, the big picture is more simple. You know who has killed any good that was ever there, he..is..evil. His followers are just as bad Mel, can't you see that?"

"Fear can make a good man do strange things, doesn't mean he's evil." Mel objected.

"Mel, call me dogmatic, but your naïve about the whole thing." Jud said.

She-Mel laid a hand on his arm. "Don't say it like that Jud. He's going through a tough stage."

"I'm going through a tough stage? Hah! Just call me naïve Mel, its more kinder." Mel said snapping to his feet.

"Mel…"

"Nope, you didn't listen to a single word I said, why should I listen to you?"

"That's not going to get us anywhere," Jud growled.

"No, you listen here, and please… actually listen. All I wanted was … a, a discussion. I wanted to talk to you guys. I didn't need any school-brain-wash crap."

"Your over reactin-"

"No, no, I'm not! I have not had a single conversation this year where I've been allowed to speak freely… or where I'm not talking to someone who thinks I'm going to stab them with my wand."

("Bloody mother Mel…")

"I don't know about you, but I need to be able to talk, to converse with people, you couldn't give me some of that!"

"Go home Mel."

"What?"

"Go home."

Like the creator had leant back for a stretch, the scene below her froze, cracking her neck she leant back over her work, tickling Mel's jaw.

Mel's mouth opened and closed like the defeated fish drowning on the sand.

The clouds above moved on quickly, embarrassed to overhear the scene.

Mel finally said, "but you're my friends."

(duh)

She-Mel turned away from Mel and faced Jud. "Don't be irrational Jud, he needs somewhere to sleep, don't turn him out."

Jud shook his shaggy blond head.

"He'd be better a' home."

She-Mel laughed, it was a horrid brittle sound.

"You can stay Mel, Jud's being ridiculous."

Jud fumed, "Oh so now I'm being ridiculous."

"Shut up Jud." She-Mel said from the side of her mouth.

Jud didn't.

"Your mam wouldn't mind ye being back, ye need to get out Mel, learn a few things. I need a break from ye too. I just want to work in peace, ye make it so so hard. Yer too demanding, just…."

"go?" Mel suggested.

"Aye."

"Right." Mel said. He patted his pocket, looking around he spotted his wand sleeping on the cobblestones. Picking it up he whispered a spell and his trunk flowed out from the tip of his wand.

"What about Jessie?" She-Mel blurted, a little teary.

Mel watched her pearly tears brim at the bottom of her eyes.

"Aaah," Mel started undecidedly.

"I'll tell her," Jud said standing up.

Mel traced his trunk with the tip of his wand.

"Isn't this surreal?" He muttered to no one.

("Oh Jud, you're a heartless bastard." She-Mel whined).

"That all you got?" Jud said.

"Yep."

"Well, I'm sorry Mel.."

"No-no, don't be… this is a good idea, good."

"…"

"…a good plan."

"Still mates?" Jud said.

"Yeah, of course."

She-Mel rounded the table and wrapped her arms like vine tendrils around Mel's neck. "I hate all this fighting and hurtful talk." She sniffed.

Mel detached himself.

"See you."

"See-"

But he had gone. Always the first with apparition, Mel vanished, leaving a ripple effect.

"He left just like that he did!" The birds would say.

"Oh what a pouting child he is, humans really are too complex for their own good."

"Mmm, I agree. Bosom buds, then a minute or two later and all relationship ties are Kaput!"

"Oh dear, and its this lot who are fighting the dark lord?"

"Well, you heard him he might not be so bad…"

"Oh not you too! Why don't you vanish off as well."

And the little jay conjured his own trunk and evaporated from the wire.

"Hmph," retorts the crow.

"That really was irrational," snaps the little magpie."

"He was the one who did it."

"Oh shut up."


	2. Mel says 'no'

**Disclaimer: I am not J.K Rowling, therefore I do not rightfully own the whole Harry Potter theme-thing…got that sorted out?**

**Good.**

Chapter 2 – Mel says No

The confrontation was still young in Mel's mind. Upon reflection he came to admire the past scene.

_A droppeth of rain from the heavens_; he thought. _A droppeth true blue, honest_. Mel was, of course, ignoring the fact blue rain was a child's production under conditions enforced by state schooling.

But, regardless of the source, it was lending a smile on his feet, and he managed to bend his pride so much, as to do a shuffle-skip at his mother's front door.

The door opened.

"Mother!"

Osteoporosis was riding her shoulders hard. Like a lunatic cowboy drunk on Texan red fever it bucked and screamed on her wispy tendons, bending her into a permanent prostrating position.

"Oh, Melvin." She said meekly, slapping the cowboy on her back, she never liked bowing to her son.

"It _has_ been a long time." Mel beamed.

"Yes. Yes it has. And what a time for you to chose."

"Eh?"

"Quick, get inside."

With strength that seemed to come from a concealed pocket she knotted her fist into his flannel shirt and dragged him inside.

Mel straightened himself, somewhat taken back. His mother pulled a pocket watch from her pocket, tapping it with an ivory wand she clucked.

"Exposure, Mel… oh dear."

"Exposure?"

"Yes! And a good 20 seconds. Can't hurt you think, but how long does it take for the wrong eyes to lap up their future feast. Oh yes, exposure."

"You mean, you haven't been out, haven't – _exposed – _yourself in…"

"…it's been about a month."

"Hmm." Mel said in a somewhat reflective pitch. He looked down on his tiny mother like an unsure professor confused as to what he should name his new chemical formula.

Mother piled on another shawl and retreated to her bunker kitchen loaded with popping plants, gummy acid drops, dancing knives and toxic bubble detergent.

"You'll need provisions."

Mother knew best.

"Just tea." Mel said taking in the kitchen's wartime renovations.

"Tea?!"

Mother roared a mountainous laugh, which spewed from her belly and shook her gappy teeth.

"Don't be so patronising mother, tea please."

"Tea is a luxury my boy. We are in war."

"No where are not."

Mother paused, licked lips.

"And as we're in a war, provisions must be sufficient, not luxurious or abundant… but sufficient. Tea… hawhawhaw!"

Mel rolled his eyes. "I really don't believe this."

Mother recovered from her belly-shaking laugh and patted her rollers self-consciously. She pulled out broth-in-a-can (whatever that is) and after giving up on a trek to recover a tin opener, tore the aluminium seals off with her wand.

A soft plop and she was opposite Mel at the table.

"So tell, tell… what's been happening?" She said in a pitiful, senile way.

"Well Dad's gone mad after Ronny ran off to Pakistan, Ronny said something about a dowry…"  
"No, no, family stuff.. pfftt! Trivial! We must put it aside, tell me about the war. Have our troops reached the front yet?"

"Mum, there's no front."

"Well there's something new! A war without a front?! Guess all that development's made it more guerrilla style, I told Sybill to camouflage her greenhouse."

"Because that's sooo important." Mel yawned.

And so the evening continued like this, it really isn't worth recording. Mel wished he had the power of the writer and could skip ahead, but as laws go, until he reaches philosophical nirvana, Mel is stuck in his presence.

Dusk has driven past, purred to a stop, dumped dark velvet on the horizon, and chuttered off, tail gating the sun, honking its horn rudely.

"Move your fat arse!"

And the golden sun, so curvaceous and beautiful, but misread in this superficial world, weeps and hides in a dark mine.

Mel sat on a chair literally tucked between his wardrobe and his bed. The whole room seemed to mimic his actions. Indeed were a nano scientist to apply a heavy, wondrous microscope to the air, they would find the particles with a puzzled look upon their brows, a pondering pipe in their mouth and finger scratching their chin, it would be a break through.

But alas, science will have to wait.

Mel concluded at 4:26am that the events of the day, that being the absurd nature of his mother and his confrontation with his closest friends, should be treated very seriously. Furthermore, that he should act upon them.

Because?

Well, Mel didn't know why. _Because_ and _why_ have always been like equal signs, so demanding and always expecting the answer correct on their left (our right). _Because _and _why _belong in maths class, under cynical mathematicians who quote wisdom from a text book whose margins is full of old school logarithms.

Tut-tut! Says the all-knowing rebel in a year 10 uniform (back row of course).

And of course, Mel was in his old, childhood bedroom.

Not a maths class.

So he decided that, _because _and_ why _should be left out. And maybe if he ever feels a geek nearby he'll ask him.

How Mel was going to act upon it was a difficult one. The obvious one is to know the truth, about everything. About he-who-must-not-name, about Harry Potter, about Dumbledore (bless him), about the buttons that burst from Aunt Marge's blouse.

But of course, the effort, would be extreme.

Mel paused in thought and looked back on his last thought (seen above) before he moved on (next stop no where). _Was he being dismissive?_

The crowd murmurs a united yes, but for some reason Mel says no.

Mel was undecided. Caught in cerebral netting. One thing he does manage to settle on is the need for a second party. The only sane one being, of course the man whose first name is Mad.

Mad Eye Moody, was what Mel scrawled on the top of his sheet. He chuckled, when was the last time he'd called him Alastor?

20 years ago?

Mel had a young ideology in him. He was proud of his unjaded soul, coincidently his skin contained a youthful glow – that of a happy 10 year old, some old farts wondered if naivety and skin-freshness were proportional.

Mad Eye Moody, (Mel repeated)

I know that considering your condition as an auror and darkness extinguisher, asking you for input is somewhat invalid.

But I'm caught up.

I will write down my beliefs first.

Mel's Beliefs:

Firstly I believe that there is never really an incident in which one side is 100 justified in carrying out actions.

(scratch that)

I mean, in a colour of an opinion or an idea there will always be a fleck or two of opposition. Nothing is ever one-minded.

Second, one that I think is accepted by most, but not understood very well: ignorance is a great evil. I feel that the _essence_ of ignorance is one of the purest substance around, the only thing I've ever approached with a one-minded attitude.

Ignorance is bad, end of story.

Thirdly, looking at one and two, I can't help that this so called war against the dark side, against you-know-who, is slightly misrepresented by the press etc. There is plenty of fear around, which is not that great. I do reckon that you-know-who is a right tyrant and I hate and loathe his actions, but I can't help that feel, that every one else sees anything touched by the dark lord is contaminated, even, perhaps, Mr Potter to an extent.

This fear has gotten right into the people and the three people I've met today have gone all defensive or loony. Therefore have decided to do something about it, I'm not sure what…start up a completely new and unbiased paper? Please help out.

Not sure what action to take.

Yours truly,

Mel.

Mel folded the parchment evenly, lingering to fold the creases into tight, fine lines. He then spent a while looking over his letter, checking for errors, ink smudges. The reality was he was delaying time, procrastinating from the truth, he had no owl and had never mastered the art of letter teleportation.

The second heavy sigh of the day was released. Mel realised he'd has to ask his lunatic mother if he'd butchered the owl yet, something told him that would explain the extra padding of his quilt.

Suddenly, with a little pop, a little jay materialised beside him. With a tweet that said 'ta-dah!' he flourished his wings, pulled out a tiny twig-like wand and dismissed the comical trunk at his side.

It was the very same jay who had been dismissed by the crow above Mel's, She-Mel's and Jud's head that mid-day.

"Well hello, you look very familiar." Mel clucked affectionately daring to extend a finger. The Jay, turned its head and regarded the finger, then on a bizarre and sudden impulse, bit him.

"Bloody!"

Sorry, the Jay cooed.

"Sorry my butt!" Mel retorted. "Here, get off with you."

The jay had been terrified of being dismissed again, he'd only recently been to his mother's who had thrown him out.

The jay resorted to begging which embarrassed Mel greatly.

"Make it up for me then," he said with a shiver of enlightenment. "Deliver this to Mad-Eye-Moody." And picking up the letter, shoved it in the beak.

How am I meant to do that? The jay asked.

"Employ your bird tactics, interrogate a few pigeons and find Moody, then give it to him. It's urgent."

You make it sound so easy.

"That's because it is."

And with that Mel pushed the jay out of his window. He felt a little excited, to be consulting a dear friend and auror of his next actions, that would be considered outlandish, but in the name of justice.

He fell short of congratulating himself, and picked himself up. Breathing slowly and low, he calmed the nerves and condemned them to further restrictions by imprisoning them in sleep.

He slipped his socked feet under the sheets and pulled the fluffy, plump quilt to his shoulders, convinced it was dear old owl's feathers only a millimetre of cotton away.


	3. Mel and his ideas

**Disclaimer: I am not J.K Rowling; therefore I do not rightfully own the whole Harry Potter theme-thing…got that sorted out?**

**Good.**

Chapter 3 – Mel and his ideas

In the little flurry of childish excitement and celebrations, Mel oversaw the only guest who sat at the table while the rest let it go on the halogen dance floor. He was melancholic and the others called him weird. Drinking to "prepare him for the cold night," he saw the doomed and pointless exercise of the hot bodies pushing and pulling their muscles to the phantom DJ.

Premonitions are never subtle, we just choose to ignore them because they are simply too eccentric. Poor things.

Mel had already embarked on his journey, even if he didn't know it. None around him could read his face and words and deduce so either. His sleeping face was upturned, pointing so faithfully to the airs beyond his low ceiling, his thin nose pierced the light that flew so purposefully into the room. The left of his face was caste in shadow due to the peak sitting central without budge on Mel's round-all-round head. Perhaps in the shadows held the tight ropes of tension and stress?

Meanwhile:

the little jay had taken it on himself to perform the best mail delivery ever in jay-postage history. Pumping his wings hard, he found it tricky to navigate to the up-draughts, nether-the-less continued. Little fluffy beads of sweat trickled onto his shiny beak. He found in his thoughts that were his companion, that his personality and context was very similar to that of Mel. He had only been Mel's company a few minutes, but jays have always been presumptuous.

Meanwhile:

Mother had been sleep walking. Her feet didn't find her shoes cowering under the radiator; her shoulders didn't find the gown that had tucked itself away under the tub. It didn't matter. Her body titled westerly then easterly as she proceeded downstairs, through the small hall and out into the backyard; the cool and sweet dark backyard.

The conscience was asleep. So the emergency whistle was asleep.

Otherwise, it would be on hot red alert, blowing that whistle loud enough to call the whales back on land and demand lock down, screeching between shrill blasts "EXPOSURE! EXPOSURE!"

Her body drank in the dew at her feet. Every skin cell was a root inhaling in all the elements that so deprived in the trenches.

Mother's face was carved in two by a row of golden, zipper teeth. Her own thin nose rose so faithfully to the stars standing over her head.

(Like Mother like son… or something like that).

We crave essence, we crave the thing that we know to be wholly true, so that we can do everything in truth and not lie. Mel believes this to be impossible unless we are ignorant.

Mother knew best.

Her backyard, cold, wet, damp and alive was the closest honesty around. If Socrates tapped her shoulder Mother would push him aside and bend down to listen the grass stretching its toes out in their sleep.

Meanwhile:

the sun had gone through counselling. The dwarves of the dark mines said she loved too much and said her father was ignorant of her emotions.

Emotions are important.

You must demand respect.

The sun felt the hydrogen atoms fuse and burst on her skin, radiating acidic burns, which dehydrated anything around. With a new soul and an empty pocket she stepped onto the horizon and threw out her rays and laughed at her petty past with the dusk.

I am here! To start afresh! I am woman! Hear me roar!

Haw-haw-haw!

The earth celebrated their bipolar mother, reaching for her fingers of warmth and held them so softly to their cheek and wept forth all the night's coldness.

Meanwhile:

Peter Pettigrew sat by a dead fire and ran a cold finger through the soot. Observing it, he rubbed it between two fingers and seeing its coal-black filth thought this should be him.

Meanwhile:

Alastor _Mad Eye _Moody, stood inches away from the great lake spreading itself out under his eye. Hogwarts stood silent, save a few 'you-whooo! I'm over here!' windows with a candlelight shining through.

Dumbledore's tomb lay solidly behind him, a vast expanse of cold aquatic-terrain ahead.

Alastor some how realised there was a metaphor in his position. But thought it too trivial to compare to one thing to make the other thing look more worse than the first thing.

"Merlin," Mad Eye muttered in disbelief.

Easing down to a squat, Mad Eye tugged his honking military style boots off and wriggled his toes in the icy fringes of the lake. A wave of chill bugs buried their teeth in his back and Mad Eye wondered.

What is to become of, Harry and his friends, of the Arthur and Molly? Of Tonks and if Remus gets hurt…what of the school? The students? Minerva, what of Severus Snape?

What of, what of. They weren't such daunting questions, once upon a time. The right and just answer always came from Dumbledore. How is there ever going to be another as great as him? And are we ever going to experience any wisdom quite so close as to the stars-in-his-eyes-Dumbledore? Is the Renaissance of the wizarding world over?

We need a learned man with the right mind to rise from these hexed ashes.

Mad Eye thought.

The lake was so smooth, so table-like and flat, Alastor wished for a spell that could freeze the surface so he may skate away. Rivers from the great lake reach all the way to the ocean.

Mad Eye had never wanted to abandon ship. Never. He'd always been the man who went back for the cabin, plunged a scimitar through a pirate and then run but for the cabin boy and then lunge at the pirate's parrot and then run back for the booze, and if the ship went down and there was still a rat to strangle, he would be the one to go down wrenching that rat's neck.

Mad Eye bit his tongue and wished he weren't so well tuned to depression and angst galore FM.

He needed out.

Whether there was a divine force that coordinated the current events is debatable. The timing was perfect, A+, platinum, gold, first, second AND third.

A little jay caught the mad, swivelling eye of Alastor Mad Eye Moody.

The little jay knew a cousin who was bests of buds with the pigeon who lived on Mad Eye's window. He just finished interrogating him and disappeared with a little pop to the ranges surrounding Hogwarts. He was a clever jay and knew that birds apparating into Hogwarts experienced a feral blazing feeling and all their feathers turned to mush.

A light of relief burned on his tiny eye when he saw the rough and tough figure of Mad Eye Moody.

His red wings stained blue clipped the grey surface of the lake, changing gears he angled his body vertical and soared to a colossal height, spinning and yahooing the whole time.

Mad Eye was amused.

After a few shrills of self-congratulations the jay nose-dived for the heavily built rhino of a man. Dropping the letter on the Moody's head, the jay collided into swamp grasses and sighed happily.

Mad Eye fumbled with the letter. He was impressed it hadn't already been torn open and abused by a nosey do-gooder who volunteered to monitor mail activity. Upon recognising the familiar scrawl, Alastor chuckled.

However the upturned face was worked on by gravity, who tied ropes to each whisker and then lunged, pulling the scarred face into a downright sag.

Mel always had to have a different point of view.

That's what had made him so attractive though, Mad Eye mused. Mel was 15 years inferior to Mad Eye, but his fresh, young and challenging ideas was a beacon for the jaded insects. Jaded insects like him.

The letter, requesting, but really demanding, a response felt like an unnecessary weight. In a burst of anger, Alastor tore the letter into 3 equal pieces and dropped them in the shallows of one of the deepest lakes in the world.

"Hah!" Moody laughed, the short, dusty sound bounced off the stony walls that grew from the water.

The jay looked up and saw his tattered letter and cooed softly in defeat. Picking himself up slowly he trudged to Mad Eye's naked foot.

Mad Eye looked down to see the tiny fluff pecking his ankle pathetically.

"You'll be wanting a response of some sort?"

Yep, and quickly too if you don't mind.

Mad Eye's magical eye swivelled to take in the pathetic remnants of Mel's letter. Looking slightly abashed, he half turned to face the jay.

"He should come and see me." Mad Eye said softly.

That all? The jay queried.

"Hmm," Mad Eye said remarking at the intelligence of the animals. Must be something in the air. Suddenly Mad Eye's mad brain formulated a leap of a deduction.

Whirring round, Mad Eye stretched his purple hands out and collected the tiny jay who was just about to launch off. Bringing the tiny bird inches from his nose, "You're a SPY!" He roared, emitting pungent odours.

The jay cringed and then sighed, again, dejectedly.

No. He objected (meekly).

Tremors and twitches shook Mad Eye's pockmark face. Without any further questioning or just argument, he plunged the bird into his jacket pocket and lurched towards the castle.

Mel woke slowly, a little part waking at a time. His fingers found the crevasses made in his cheeks by mother's soft sheets.

"Aah." He murmured happily, stretching out.

He made his way down to the kitchen and pulled out the tea mother had hidden behind the plumbing works under the sink. Shaking his head, he wondered if the nursing home will come sooner than later.

He gathered his thoughts at the table, wondering when he was going to get some sort of response, wondering whether he should take action regardless of Moody's suggestions.

So immersed in the shallow waters of his mind, Mel hardly took in the bedraggled state of his mother as she lumbered into the tiny kitchen. Dirt hung on her hanging cheeks, grass curled asleep in her rollers, dew under her nails and webs from all the spiders in the garden netted around her neck.

With a tiny 'oh?' of alarm, mother took in her state and made for the bathroom.

Mel had reached a decision.

(Rejoice).

He will become a master in all the facts, articles, accounts and theories of the present day. He decided he would have to know before he set out to find its pockmarks. A week of solid study.

Mel inscribed the promise on behind his eyes.

After a week. The organization and preparation would occur.

Mel inscribed that under his first promise.

And then he would set off, to find whatever he needed to find.

(Again, he inscribed the promise on his list.)

On the lesser side of things, he would wait for his little jay and ring up some old folks' homes.

Mel congratulated himself and took a long slurp of his tea. Hardly flinching as the boiling water peeled away his oesophagus.


	4. Cold wind blowing

**Disclaimer: I am not J.K Rowling; therefore I do not rightfully own the whole Harry Potter theme-thing…got that sorted out?**

**Good.**

**NB: towards the end it gets a little dark. For those who were happier with the perambulating junk of the previous chapters, then it may be a little unsettling. Just felt obliged to put in a warning of a sort.**

Chapter 4 – Cold wind blowing

Life lingered somewhat impatiently for Mel and his mother. Each morning as Mel would go to bed he'd compare his present soul to that before his educational endeavour. His personal meter suggested he was becoming more and more sober. A week or two trenched by, Mel had worked through 26 kilograms of historic Daily Prophets, read through 82 personal accounts and studied 4 families that involved themselves in dark matters.

In a notebook that was meant to be pocket size - but was breaking free, Mel noted that 'dark' families were closely linked by blood; this could suggest an ingrown ideology amongst them.

He had reserved one day of the week for complete reflection and pondering over the matter. Though secretly Mel considered it his holiday, his seventh day – hallelujah!

Mel let himself sleep longer, bathed in hotter water and stretched out wider on the couch. He would designate an hour or so for reflection but found it far too depressing and evil on such a holy day.

On morning the clock stopped, Mel looked up at the analogue face with a smile; it was like a silver crane flying out of stormy weather; Aaah, the symbolic nature of it all. Never mind reality, the ordinary folk are happy with a dove and some leaves shoved down its throat.

The second hand had struck up a coup. It wasn't the governing force but was foundation and while it caged itself up between 7 and 8 with homemade-fertiliser-bombs, time was on standstill.

"Fix that won't you Mel?"

"Oh, now?"

"Now? What do you mean? Unless that clock is fixed there is no 'now' or 'later' everything happens simultaneously, and then what would be the point? Now? Pfft! Really Mel, what did they teach you at Hogwarts?"

Mel pulled the clock down, he could almost hear the revolutionary screams from the second hand, "we demand! Equality! and distribution of wealth! onto all hands! This CAPITALIST carrot-feeding donkey machine is governed by tyrannical minutes and hours, let us live in a seconds world! Where we shall all be the same! EQUALITY, FREEDOM… the time will be so productive! Life will pick up pace!"

Mel shook the clock; it rattled and squeaked for a while. The second hand glared angrily at Mel and moved on. The rumours that spread around, divine intervention stopped the revolution and of course secondism do not believe in divinity only in seconds, so the whole time was brought to their senses.

End of that story and beginning of this.

The second hand pulled into 12 with a knowing chuckle.

At that second: a lunatic laugh rammed its needle fine point into Mel's eardrums. Commotion splashed down heavy in the streets outside, spraying the houses with a cold-slap-in-the-face. Attention whirred to the event outside. Mel found his feet whirring under him as he flew out the door and crunched over the path, bursting with colour and desperate inquisitiveness onto the road.

His expression could have housed all 15 pool ballsjaw swinging loose at his feet Mel took in the cause of the sound.

Gustav Meadowbank, long time acquaintance, colleague and transfiguration rival was propelling himself along the street in a miniature Morris Minor.

The fact the pea size car was suspended upside down in the air attracted a lot of attention from dizzy widows and gob smacked, bored grandchildren.

Gustav was howling, his crow neck balancing a yahooing, fun spitting head that rolled and shook with excitement.

Mel found a hysterical bubble inflate in his acidic, foul gut and rise up through his oesophagus with ease similar to an elevator car and popped innocently in his mouth.

Tumult was unleashed and a scream of laughter ripped from his throat. Mel's tongue threw itself around in exhilaration; his stomach panted to keep up with the strenuous jitterbug dance his laughing chords had struck up.

"Mel!" A horrified shriek screamed.

"Mel! Oh – DO get inside Mel!"

His mother was ignoring or hadn't seen Gustav Meadowbank's clown size, floating car.

However she heard it when Gustav threw his weight on the brakes. The car screamed to a shuddering stop, Mel watched paralysed with violent giggles as Gustav attacked the gears, slamming the mechanics of the Morris Minor into action. Slowly the pea car reversed, nearing Mel and his mother.

("OH MEL!!")

Gustav's hanging head sidled up to Mel.

"My…" He breathed.

Mel chuckled, "always had to make the bravo entrance."

Gustav blinked happily from behind his round glasses.

"Well, you…know..aaarr, I wasn't really heading any place. Aaar, no entrance then. But, arrr you know, now that you aaar mention it. I might, aaar camp out, at-ar-your place."

Mother screamed after her baby, her shrill yell bouncing off terrified houses.

"MEL! THAT'S AN ENTIRE MINUTE!"

Gustav, did a flicky manoeuvre in the ignition and suddenly the car rotated sharply and found the ground.

Mel marvelled at the compact size of it all.

"What _are _you doing in a _car?_"

Gustav coughed like a sick cat, his massive globular glasses teetering violently, the crowd's breath was bated, Gustav gave his shaggy round head a shake and his glasses righted themselves, applause.

"Well, I…aaar, don't know, if you….aaar, read…the newspapers…"

Mel shook his head, "You've _no_ idea, I've been reading every one since Louis XXIV…nothing of present day however."

Gustav blushed violently, each little red particle laughed at his folly and shouted out, "Look over here! Little Goo-stav's blaaashing!"

"Ahem." Gustav shook his throat clear, "aaar, they suspended me."

Mel's face opened up with knowing, "Aaah. I see."

Gustav mumbled on, "Not….arr…_permitted_, to, you know… arr, magic."

"Oh Gustav, you crazy fool."

"Aaar."

"Come in you sorry sod, poor thing, how do you manage?"

"MEL!" (Another screech from mother).

Gustav and Mel trudged slowly up the path.

With little pops, busy ant like men and women appeared outside all the houses on the street. They rushed into the living rooms and fished out all the children and old folk, mind-altering spells were issued out every window.

Then the ants would gather in the middle of the road,

"Johnson's Road next."

Then 'pop' they were gone, leaving the freshly stunned street swaying in a mute bewildered state.

Mother's face sagged with relief as the two stepped through the front door. She hardly took in Gustav but seized him by the shoulders and propelled him towards the kitchen. Sitting him down, she muttered nonsense about helping out the fellow soldier.

Mel sat down opposite Gustav and they 'aar-ed' the rest of the evening, drinking watered-up-powdered-down milk.

Gustav had been banned the use of magic, due to his philosophy and the actions that resulted in his philosophy.

"Mel, aar, you remember me… arr, I was very in tune… arrr with the-aar, muggles social aaar… revolution, the 60's were really aaaar…. Really something… and I believe if we can get that… arrrr, you know aaarrr… free love feel about….arrr, the country wouldn't be in… arrr, such a state."

Mel looked at his with disbelief,

"So you administered several tonnes of love potion to Ireland?"

"Aaarrr…"

"Hmm?"

"Yes."

"Any reason, Ireland?" Mel said shaking his head.

"No.. no, no aaar reason."

Mel raised his eyebrows, "well, is that all? I mean, _suspension_ for a bit of love dosage…"

Gustav laughed in a paternal matter, "aar, well…you know Mel, you should aaar, be reading the current day papers…arrr, much more…. arr-hahahaw."

Mel shook his head.

"It _really is absurd._"

Gustav shifted in his seat.

"I guess the ministry's aaar little shifty, you know aar, considering the times."

"Hmph," Mel retorted. Mel lent back in his chair and lifted a finger to his bow of a jawbone and struck a thinker's pose.

"But there have been scenario's far worse that have got little less than a raised eyebrow."

Gustav looked unimpressed, "yeah? Well, there are the odd aar, cases… but you know…aar, can't really assume these aar things."

"Well I've got a few cases in mind actually."

"Hmm?"

Mel snapped out of his thinker's pose and leant over the table.

"Mildred Ark, from Kent, was a bumbling thing. Convinced the entire province she was Duchess of Kent and performed three-hundred-and-four memory charms, luckily, her bumbling rumbling ways resulted in a memory-backfire, she was clueless and was judged (the judgement was very lenient however due to her popularity and the fact she recalled next to nothing)."

Gustav frowned, "You aar just made that up, that would have to be aar carbon copy of the Lockhart Case…aaar Harry Potter discovered he was a fraud and Gilderoy attempting aaar to brainwash his aar lost his mind."

Mel was on the verge of launching into something else when his mouth froze, the cogs in his brain reversed and a few sparks flew to light up the dark.

"_Yes, _they are very similar … _aren't they?_"

"You've aar been influenced by the aar Potter craze?"

"Eh…no. I don't think so."

"Aar."

Mel shook his head.  
"But do you know what I'm saying, that Mildred Ark thing was from yonks ago… but get this, 50 years ago some old bag from Sussex went berserk and cleared out the local forests all 'impure' species. And for her that meant centaurs, an entire herd was erased… I can imagine the local council still has to make amends with the centaur race.

She also got hold of some mer-folk and tied them to an old mill house, do you know how painful it would be for a mer-fold to die of sun exposure, you slowly roast and the vertigo! The dehydration causes you to spin in and out of a painful conscience.

Now _that _is a case of mis-using your magic. _That _demands for suspension. _Distributing a large batch of love potion?_"

Gustav nodded, "now I'll – aar – take you on that, it is unfair isn't it?"

Mel felt the victory like champagne bubbles; rising with a golden aura to the cool, calm neck.

Gustav cocked his head, "now where'd did you aar get all information?"

"Oh don't you know?" Mel said playfully.

Gustav shook his head, a dumb saint smile budding on his round head.

"Well," Mel started. "I'm on a mission…I'm getting to the bottom of all the black and white pish posh the media is leaking to us… and I am becoming a master of the history of magic, or of such sorts, you see…"

Blah-bity blah-hah blah.

Mel was reflecting on the day as his toes savoured the smooth cool linen, like silk dog tongues the sheets held him, the slip sycophant.

It had been a marvellous day. Gustav was also convinced that the media was turning into propaganda and that the Ministry smelt of dictatorship, it was still a newborn of a scent… a whiff on a cold day, which is a rare thing as smells are humid and heat loving beasts.

His body was only just slipping into the steamy, warm sleep that was promised when a coded knock rapped softly at his door.

"Mother?"

"Oh Mel, they've got something into him!"

Mel propped himself onto his elbows and glowered,

"Not more of your war pish posh."

Mel couldn't see his mother, she was just a darker spot in a haze of black dust, if he had he would have lurched from his bed and catapulted over the stair railings.

Mother continued, her voice gaining a pleading tone.

"_Please _Mel, he's in danger."

"Who is?"

"Who else!" Mother said exasperated, "Gustav."

Mel threw his sheets off, "fine. Show me."

Mother snatched Mel's hand, they were icy and bit into his soft, podgy, little muffin hands. Mel caught a whiff of sincere fear in her sharp actions and whimpers and stiffened slightly.

Mother began to mutter, like a docile old lady, "I made a bed for him on the couch, he didn't seem to mind. I _would have _given him a water bottle, but you know… this is a hard time, and it didn't seem right. He was baffled, what was it then? 11:00. Past this old chooks bed time, what year was it? 1975.. oh no '76. That's it. Poor Gustav."

Had Mel feathers they would have ruffled themselves quite comfortably.

Mother reached the foot of the stairs and paused, he could feel her straining herself to hear any peculiar signs. Mel heard a low violent whisper from the lounge room.

"This is how I found him." Mother said and drew Mel into the lounge room.

A sliver of street lamp danced over a sweaty round face, Mel could see the epilepsy-state Gustav was under. He groped for the lamp, and as the yellow light kissed the room hello a cry escaped Mother's lips.

Gustav reminded Mel of a mad dog. The man, they had known to be the quirky, shy fellow with a cow hip of hair had transformed to a grey faced, wrinkled hag with a violent twitch seizing his face. His body shook and guttered, like a jitterbug dance gone dark. Arms flailed and tears from Mel were shed.

"Gustav…" Mel said softly. Mel knelt to Gustav's level. "Gustav." (A little louder).

Mother trembled, "he can't hear you Mel."

Gustav's diluted eyes bore into the flaky ceiling above, he did not sense Mel or Mother.

"Oh don't let him speak!" Mother wailed, horrified eyes transfixed at the bleeding lips of Gustav's.

Mel hardly had time to issue a bleak huh? When Gustav, on cue, delivered his little nightmare of a monologue.

"Break your back birdie! Finger lick little dog! I'll break you… aaarr," Gustav smacked his lips, crimson spit flying. "Oh let me, do… do! DO! Let's see how to can swim my duck; duck's can swim. Why can't you? You're a toad I see. I hate toads; I will break your back. Oooh, I hear the sounds. The little popping, aaa-a-a-aaa"

Gustav's body shook even more violently as sent his shuddering laugh to the bottom of Mel's spine.

"Listen hear you little muggle loving fuck! You see these hands…" Gustav's fingers gnarled themselves into a twisted claw (a snap and a snarl) "…you wouldn't be able to count the number of ears I've torn off, the number…hoho! The number of BACKS! I've twisted, I've snapped."

Mother screamed. Anyone could hear the sound. It was her last defence against all the hatred shooting from Gustav. The scream soared above the dark atmosphere and turned the clouds red and yellow.

Edvard Munch was inspired by the very same scream in 1893.

Gustav's eyes turned into lamps of grey, maniacal delight brimmed and flowed as tears. "SCREAM! SCREAM MY LOVELY!"

Mel seized his mother and staggered outside; lurching and sobbing Mother seized the geraniums and tore them.

"How could you say things like that?"

Geranium petals wept as their sisters lay battered on the saluting grass below.

Mother wept on a different plane, reaching for her son, she called for forgiveness. Like a howl on a mountain, the hollow sound bounced throughout the streets. Mel was frozen, his own tears, first shed at the site of his new friend, had become a clinging ice cube.

His mother hot tears did not touch his icy exterior.

And the trees shuddered; their teeth were on edge. They tucked their leafy crowns away and blended in with the flora crowd, turning a collar up against the cold wind blowing from the two in the backyard.


End file.
